Perfectionist Rehab

People are different in public and private,

To manipulate others – true self they hide it.

In my experience the sentiment is little true,

Unless you’re like the lady in blue.

People believed her stories so well,

That I deserved the hatred that befell,

Upon me from strangers she always told,

Ever since I was seven years old.

The lady in blue was sweet and kind,

Over again I’d repeat in my mind.

But that mask came off after adoption,

When she no longer had to live in caution.

Once I was hers the color bled,

Drained from her petals by wine blood red.

To narcissists their children are objects of joy,

To prove all their splendor – isn’t it coy?

The brilliance of her plan was unmatched,

Find the pathetic and make them attached,

To your bosom so wonderful they’ll never see,

The monster within you can truly be.

Her plan was flawless – look at the facts,

Everyone’s heard stories of the attacked,

By the little souls treated so poor,

That they couldn’t recognize kindness anymore.

What happened to me wasn’t in my head,

It kept me awake all night in my bed.

Screaming, berating, slapped, and attacked,

At least until the day I hit back.

I was sixteen – I came home from school,

I went to the kitchen for water cool.

Drunk in her chair, the lady in blue,

Eyes shot-blood, “a bone to pick with you”.

I noticed her hands and what did I discover,

But a small black book with a satin cover,

A dream journal assigned by my therapist,

She was a night terror post-trauma specialist.

I recorded within details of my dreams,

And then we’d discuss what they could mean.

Within its pages discussed a fantasy detailed,

Explain to the lady I tried, but failed.

Teenagers have dreams with content explicit,

A concept I thought to be implicit.

I dreamed of a boy in one of my books,

The details of which completely unhooked,

Her thoughts of me, though innocent at that time,

Believing the content was a true crime.

“You slut! How could you be so lude,

To write of this act totally crude.”

“But lady,” I sobbed completely confused,

“it was a dream, I’m not lying to you!”

Scoffing with hatred, her eyes glowed red,

“I’ve never believed a word you’ve said!”

“That’s my journal for dreams,

An assignment you see.

This isn’t admission of guilty pleasure,

It’s for therapy!” however,

She mocked and she scolded, entirely pleased.

“No one ever writes down their dreams.”